The Final Phone Call
by jedi4ever11
Summary: My first Great Gatsby fanfiction, my own theory of Gatsby's death. Possibly slight AU I hope you enjoy, rated T for minor cursing
1. Chapter 1

Hi everyone! This is my first Great Gatsby fanfiction. I absolutely love the Great Gatsby, I've read it a good fifty times, it's truly wonderful. I have always saw much mystery in Gatsby's death, and I never truly thought Wilson had shot him. I dedicate this to my friend Cissy, hope you enjoy,  
Emily Storey

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The Final Phone Call

Jay Gatsby. A man of much gossip and rumor. One known for his extravagant parties. He was one always smiling, always calling everyone "Old Sport". But today was not one of these days. Today was the day he would die. Today was the day he lost everything.

He was in his yard, looking out at the stunning green bulb of light at the end of Daisy's dock. A fog rose up from the lake, making it cloudy.

"Gatsby." A rough voice called huskily from behind him. It beamed with a sharp Boston accent. Gatsby turned to see George Wilson. He really wasn't surprised to see him there. He stood quite short, and drunken-like. But what really caught Gatsby's attention was the outline of a pistol in Wilson's front pocket.

"I saw s'you drivin' off in Tom Buchanan's yellow car after Myrtle was hit, you wanna tell me what you were doin' there Gatsby?" Wilson said a bit to loud, his words stuttered a bit and one could smell the alcohol from twenty feet a way. How Gatsby hadn't smelled it until now he didn't know, but it was so strong now it made him feel sick to his stomach.

"I'm sorry for your wife, old sport, but I have nothing to do with her death." Gatsby stepped back avoiding the smell the best he could, "Now what you need is a good nights sleep, how about you stay here and I call up a cab?" Wilson reached for the pistol in his pocket, "Nononono not until you tell me what you were doin' there!" Gatsby swallowed uncomfortably, his blue-green eyes jotted towards his patio door. "I was driving to Daisy's house, she wanted to go home and I-"  
"NO!" Wilson roared, in a flash the small handheld silver plated pistol came flying out of his pocket and inches from Gatsby's face.

Gatsby raised his hands and placed them behind his head. "Alright then Wilson. What do you want me to say?" Wilson swung his pistol as if it was a toy, "TOM! He tol' me! He tol' me you hit ma wife! You killed ma wife!"

Gatsby nodded slowly, "ok then old sport, I was in the car. Myrtle came running out, I couldn't swerve and Daisy. She started weeping, I couldn't just stop. She couldn't see your wife strewn across the road."  
"NO! You kille' her cause – cause!" Wilson swung the gun again, stumbling slightly, "You killed my wife!" His eyes drooped slightly and Gatsby went forward and reached for the gun, trying to pull it away from Wilson. The gun went off once in the air as the two of them went towards the dewy grass. "Nonononono!" Wilson kept screaming and the gun went off again.

This time both of them went still. Gatsby couldn't breath. Wilson's eyes went blank and his head slumped over on the ground.

"I heard he killed a man once."

And now he had. He had killed a man, and not one in the war. One now. One in the dark. The dawn just barely raising behind him, giving him just a small ray of light to see Wilson. Gatsby sat up, the gun still in his shaky hands. Wilson's plump belly had a deep wound right in the center of it. Blood dribbled from his oil stained shirt and down to the wet grass between them.

For a moment Gatsby couldn't move. He felt he had been shot himself. He even looked down at his own abdomen for a wound, for any trace of blood. There was some, quite a lot, but not of his own, of Wilson's.

Gatsby rushed into his house. Panic set through his veins.

He threw his shirt off and rushed to the phone. His first instinct was to phone the police but as he went to dial the first number he stopped. He couldn't. And he stopped. He paused. Everything paused.

Nick was still awake. He was sitting in his room. His covers were strewn across the mattress.

_BBBBRINGGGG, BBBRINGGGG, BBBRINGGGG_

The sound of the phone in the sitting room nearly made Nick jump out of his skin.

"Nick? Nick Carroway?"

It was Gatsby. His voice was shaking in panic. "Gatsby?" Nick asked, but he knew it was him.

"Nick, Nick, Wilson, George Wilson is dead Nick. He's dead, I-I shot him."  
"What?"

"He's dead Nick." Now Gatsby's voice was extremely calm. As if he had noticed something. If everything had just changed. Nick's name, the end of it at least had fallen short a bit when Gatsby had said it.

"Gatsby?" Nick asked once again.

"Yes, old sport?" Gatsby said, just above a whisper.

"Gatsby, where's Wilson? Have you called the police? This is-"

"No old sport. No I haven't called anyone but you."  
"Gatsby-"  
There was an audible sigh over the phone. "I lost her Nick. I lost Daisy. I have lost everyone." Nick went to speak but Gatsby went on again. "Nick, this is it. This act. This _Jay Gatsby_. He's dying Nick." Nick looked at the window toward Gatsby's mansion. "Gatsby, have you been shot?"

"No. No old sport, I have not. I am fine Nick. Just fine. Never been finer. Listen old sport. I'm dying. I have been dying ever since I saw Daisy. Ever since I saw what that Tom did to her." Nick could hear the anger in Gatsby's voice but it wasn't raised. He still seemed so calm.

"We are all dying Nick. All of us. We are all dying of an illness we call life. This is where Jay Gatsby dies old sport." There was a silence between the two of them. After a minute Nick was able to speak. "Gatsby let me come over I-"  
"No Nick. It's alright, I'm fine. I'm quite, quite fine."

Then Gatsby's side of the line dropped.

A loud bang of a gun blasted through the air next door in Gatsby's mansion.

Nick's heart felt as though it had fallen right out of his chest. His stomach knotted.

_Dear God. _He thought, _dear god._

Nick let his head fall against the wall. The way Gatsby sounded, so calm, so damn calm.

"Ever since I saw what that Tom did to her." Gatsby had said just minutes before.

Tom in the end killed everyone in some way or another.

He had killed Daisy, the real Daisy. The kind, loving Daisy. She had been turned into a cruel heartless bitch of a woman. And Jordan Baker. She had been killed too. She had been shot right between the eyes. She had fallen for it. For sophistication. And Nick, Nick had been shot too. But now as Nick sat in his sitting room he had survived his bullet wound. He had fallen for Tom and Daisy's slew of spells and potions. But Gatsby. Gatsby had it the worst. He had been shot by Daisy. She had killed him. James Gatz had been twisted and distorted into Jay Gatsby, James did anything and everything for Daisy. But Nick had casted a spell on Daisy. And in return Daisy casted a spell on Gatsby.

And in the end everyone died. Everyone had been shot and bled out into the water. Their eyes looking blankly into the vastness of lies and dark magic the Buchanan's had conjured up.


	2. Edit of chapter one

I chose to revisit this story, and edit it, I do hope you enjoy

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The Final Phone Call

Jay Gatsby. A man that thrived in the words of rumor and gossip. He was known for his extravagant parties at his mansion. The "Gatsby Mansion" as the locals would call it. Gatsby had a smile that could cure any illness, which could make any person feel worthy of anything. Make a poor man feel like a billionaire and sick man feel infinite. Gatsby as he was called, rarely ever Jay. He called everyone Old Sport. Not because he didn't remember the hundreds of people at his parties only God knew why he called them Old Sport. He took every day like a spectacular gift and used it to his advantage. But today was not this day. God, he tried, but failed. Today he would die.

He was in his yard, breathing in the cool air of summer. His gaze locked on the small green bulb of light that belonged to the dock of Daisy Buchanan. A young woman who had stayed in his heart since Gatsby had left for the war. She had stunning blue eyes of the deepest ocean and curly blonde hair infused with the scent of wildflowers. Daisy Buchanan was Gatsby's true angel. But Daisy didn't belong to him either. She belonged to Tom Buchanan. And to think Gatsby's whole life, the parties, the mansion, it was all for Daisy. And for all this he still could not have her. God knows he had tried, he had tried more than any man could ever dare. His life as Jay Gatsby was for Daisy. He was born James Gatz, a poor man who had risen up from his poverty for one woman. Just one. No other would do. Realizing that his life had been for nothing Gatsby's chest felt as through it had been weighed down with the weight of two grown men.

"'Atby? Jay 'Atsby?" Gatsby turned around from Daisy's dock to the strong smell of bourbon belonging to George Wilson. A short man with a thick neck that matched his equally thick stomach. He was covered in muck and grease most likely from falling into the dewy grass of Gatsby's front lawn. George Wilson had been though as tough as a night as Gatsby had. George had lost someone too, his wife. Myrtle Wilson had been hit by Tom Buchanan's car. Gatsby had been in the car and was ready to take blame for the fatal accident but it was Daisy who had been driving. Knowing of the affair between Myrtle Wilson and Daisy's husband Tom she had seen Myrtle running out towards the car, possibly assuming that it was Tom in the car and not Daisy. There really was no way of stopping before hitting Myrtle but Daisy had kept driving, not even stopping to look back.

Gatsby wasn't surprised to see Wilson here. As drunk as he was and equally distraught Gatsby could see how Wilson could look for anyone that could explain his wife's sudden death. "Oh Wilson, it's a pleasure to see you here," Gatsby lied with his gentle smile, "Can I get you something to drink?" Wilson tottered a little on the uneven lawn before slurring out his next words intertwining them with the thick nauseating smell of alcohol. "I saw s'you driving off in Tom Buchanan's yellow car of his after my Myrtle was hit. You wanna tell be what you were doing out there 'Atsby?"

"Now Wilson, I'm sure we can sort this all out, how about you come inside?" Gatsby said once more taking a step away from Wilson. He glanced at his back porch door nervously. If he would have to run from Wilson the back porch would have to do. "S'NO!" Wilson roared. His arm swung out from his pocket. A silver pistol hit the moonlight but didn't go into Gatsby's direction. It swung back to Wilson's side as he tottered a bit once more. "You's tell me why you were in that care Gatsby!" he yelled again. Gatsby nodded softly. "I was taking Daisy home and-"

"NO!" Wilson growled raising the pistol up to Gatsby's face. "Alright then, Old Sport, what do you want me to say about Myrtle?" Gatsby said raising his hands up so they were visible to Wilson. "'At Tom Buchanan tol' me you hit ma wife 'Atsby! 'Ou kill' her!" Gatsby shifted uncomfortably and swallowed hard, "Ok then Wilson, I was in the car, Myrtle came running out and I couldn't swerve, and Daisy – she started weeping, I couldn't stop, she couldn't see your wife like that Wilson, I'm sorry." Wilson couldn't take that as an answer, "NO! No you'sa lying! You kill' her-" Gatsby went to grab the gun before Wilson could fire it. The two fought over it, before Wilson tripped over a small rock. With a loud _BANG_ the gun went off and the two tripped over each other and went tumbling down the grassy hill. Gatsby's head smacked against a tree making the world around him go blank for a split second. His stomach churned before his face fell flat into the grass.

With a groan Gatsby sat up in the darkness checking over himself for a bullet wound that may have possibly have hit him. Perhaps the gun had fired off into the air, he thought. He looked down to see if Wilson was all right. He was slumped over in the grass, not appearing to be breathing. Gatsby touched his shoulder which was wet with a sticky copper smelling substance. Gatsby held his breath and held his hand up to the moonlight. A deep crimson shade of blood stained his palm and dripped down onto his sleeve. For a moment Gatsby couldn't move, he couldn't breath. His heart started pounding as he leaned forward towards Wilson, pushing him on his back to check for the sight of a wound. In fact there had been a deep gash in Wilson's chest, blood had oozed from the wound and spread over his flannel shirt and onto the dewing grass.

Upon instinct Gatsby pulled himself off from the ground and stumbled into his house. He knew if he phoned the police he would be arrested and tried for murder. What would he do? He couldn't just leave George Wilson out in the summer heat, bleeding out on his lawn. So after a long while he picked up the telephone, and phoned Nick Carroway.

Nick Carroway was thirty today. He lived next door to Gatsby in a much smaller house. He payed rent and worked in stocks. He was more on the poorer side, far poorer than Gatsby, and perhaps that was a good thing. He had no money to create such a life to lure a past lover, he had just enough to pay for the things he needed most. Maybe that is why Gatsby liked him so much, Nick was far different than the other people who came to Gatsby's parties. Maybe it was because he didn't thrive off the things he could buy. But off the things he already had. Nick was a man who was just happy with what he had.

Nick was currently asleep. Head buried in his pillow and the blanket strewn at his feet. His telephone was down stairs in his kitchen and even through his deep sleep he heard the distinct sound of a phone.

_BRRRRINNGGG! BRRRINGGG! BRRRRINGG!_

With a jolt Nick was knocked out of his peaceful slumber. His head pounded as he set up. A thought came to mind of how helpful it might be to have his phone put into his bedroom so he wouldn't have to go far to get to it in this time of night. He tottered down the stairs and into his kitchen before pulling the telephone off of its receiver and up to his ear. "Carroway residence, this is Nick speaking?"

"Nick? Nick Carroway?" A voice shuttered on the other side of the line. "Gatsby? Are you alright?" Nick yelled, he glanced out of his window to look for him but it was far to dark to see much of anything. There was a bout of silence at first, just the soft sounds of Gatsby's breathing before he replied slowly and gently, "Yes, yes I'm fine Old Sport. George Wilson is outside."  
"Outside? Well let him in?" Nick said, trying to stretch the phone cord to the living room where he would be able to see Gatsby's front lawn from his window. "I can't." Gatsby muttered, the sound of shifting scratched through the phone. "Why?" Nick asked finally returning to his kitchen. "He's dead Nick. I shot him. He's in the back yard, you can probably see him from your kitchen window."

"I-uh-what?" Nick choked he pulled the phone cord once again to his kitchen window, nearly running straight into the wall before finding sight of the window. "He came to my house Nick, A little less than an hour ago, drunk as can be. He had a gun with him, Tom had said something about me being in the car when Myrtle Wilson was hit." Nick squinted to see anyone in Gatsby's backyard, his mind overran with the thought of George Wilson's death just hours after his wife's? Why would Tom tell Wilson about Gatsby? Questions and assumed answers ran through his mind, giving him a terrible headache.

"What happened Gatsby? Where are you now?" Nick stuttered.

"Hm? Oh. In front of the patio doors Old Sport." Gatsby said, through the sounds over the phone he was fumbling with something, metal perhaps with the distinct clicks and slides of steel. "What happened Gatsby?" Nick repeated. "Like I said Nick, he had a gun, and he was drunk. It's what happens with every drunk man with a gun Old Sport." Nick was startled at the calamity of Gatsby. Like it was a meaningless chat between old friends. At first Nick thought that maybe Gatsby was in shock with all he had been through that night. No Gatsby was far from shocked, he was fine. Perfectly fine, maybe even too fine. Did Gatsby _mean _to kill Wilson? Nick knew he was capable of killing a man; he had in the war but now? Was he now?

"Are you alright Jay…?" Nick found himself saying just above a whisper. "I am." Gatsby replied, "I know what you are thinking Nick. No, I didn't kill Wilson on purpose, I'm not even sure if I did. I had grabbed the gun from him and he tripped, we both went down the hill – you know the one going towards your house Nick." Nick glanced back out his kitchen window hoping not to see a lifeless George Wilson just outside it. Even if Wilson had been right outside his window it would be impossible to see in the never-ending midnight. "Nick, I'm dying." Gatsby said through the phone. Nick paused before opening his mouth to speak but no words seemed to come out.

"I – what? How Gatsby? Have you been hurt? Shot?" Nick yelled, choking on his own words. "No, no I wasn't hurt. I am dying of realization Nick. I have been dying since I saw Daisy last. Tom has changed her; she isn't Daisy anymore. She hasn't been since the war and I should have seen that. Of course I was to in love with her." Gatsby chuckled and sighed deeply, through the phone Nick could of swore he had heard Gatsby choking back a short sob. "We are all dying Old Sport." Gatsby said suddenly with a breath, "All of us. We are all dying of an illness we call life. This is where Jay Gatsby dies Nick." Nick fought to find words. "Gatsby let me come over-," He sputtered. "No, no that is quite alright, I'm fine. Yes, quite – quite fine. I think I'll go for a swim." Then Gatsby's side of the line dropped.

Nick had thought of calling back, hoping that Gatsby had only dropped the phone. But after a moment the unquestionable howl of a gunshot blasted through the air and blared in Nick's ear. He could have sworn his heart had stopped just then. He even glanced down to check for a bullet wound. The he realized it; Gatsby had shot himself! Nick ran to his kitchen window to find Gatsby's light on, the patio door open but no sign of Gatsby. But something told Nick that he was there, somewhere. His blood dribbling into the grass, or maybe – "Oh God…" Nick breathed. Gatsby was in the pool. He couldn't see him there but Gatsby was there. Floating in the pool, the clear water around him being stained with blood. That's what he meant when he had said he was going for a swim. "Oh God…"

Nick let himself fall against his wall, dropping the phone at his feet. "Tom has changed her, she's not Daisy anymore." Gatsby had said just minutes before. Tom in the end had killed everyone. Even himself, Nick realized. Daisy was Tom's first victim. Kind, loving Daisy, gentle and sweet, couldn't hurt a fly if she had to. Tom had slaughtered her, turned Daisy into a cold heartless witch of a woman. One that could kill a man along with a fly, and perhaps she did. And Jordan Baker, Tom had killed her too. She had been shot right between the eyes and had loved every minute of it. And Nick had been shot too, but he had survived the wound. He at first had fallen for the Buchanan's slew of spells and potions that made him believe in this true American Dream.

Gatsby had it worst though. Gatsby hadn't been killed by Tom, he had been killed by Daisy. James Gatz, the poor but loving man had been twisted and distorted into Jay Gatsby; rich and powerful, with parties and a mansion that could call for hundreds. Tom Buchanan had taught Daisy the darkest form of magic, and Daisy used that power on James Gatz.

In the end everyone died. Everyone had been shot and bled out in the cool waters of Gatsby's pool. Their eyes looking blankly into the vastness of lies and magic the Buchanan's had conjured up. "God rest their souls…" Nick muttered at last, "God rest 'em."


End file.
